A Voyage Of Consolation by Sara Jeannette Duncan (best fiction books to read TXT) 📕

Streets That Crowd Under The Funicular Railway. "Never Again Will I Call

That Woman Aunt Caroline."

"Don'T Call Her Fleshy,  My Dear,  That'S What Really Irritated Her,"

Remarked The Senator. The Senator'S Discrimination,  I Have Often

Noticed,  Is Not The Nicest Thing About Him.

Hours And Hours It Seemed To Take,  That Drive To Pompeii. Past The

Ambitious Confectioner With His Window Full Of Cherry Pies,  Each Cherry

Round And Red And Shining Like A Marble,  And The Plate Glass Dry-Goods

Store Where Ready-Made Costumes Were Displayed That Looked As If They

Might Fit Just As Badly As Those Of Westbourne Grove,  And So By Degrees

And Always Down Hill Through Narrower And Shabbier Streets Where All The

Women Walked Bareheaded And The Shops Were Mostly Turned Out On The

Pavement For The Convenience Of Customers,  And A Good Many Of Them Went

Up And Down In Wheelbarrows. And Often Through Narrow Ways So

High-Walled And Many-Windowed That It Was Quite Cool And Dusky Down

Below,  And Only A Strip Of Sun Showed Far Up Along The Roofs Of One

Side. Here And There A Wheelbarrow Went Strolling Through These Streets

Too,  And We Saw At Least One Family Marketing. From A Little Square

Window A Prodigious Way Up Came,  As We Passed,  A Cry With Custom In It,

And A Wheelbarrow Paused Beneath. Then Down From The Window By A Long,

Long Rope Slid A Basket From The Hands Of A Young Woman Leaning Out In

Red,  And The Vendor Took The Opportunity Of Sitting Down On His Barrow

Handle Till It Arrived. Soldi And A Piece Of Paper He Took Out Of The

Basket And A Cabbage And Onions He Put In,  And Then It Went Swinging

Upwards And He Picked Up His Barrow Again,  And We Rattled On And Left

Him Shouting And Pushing His Hat Back--It Was Not A Soft Felt But A

Bowler--To Look Up At The Other Windows. In Spite Of The Bowler It Was A

Picturesque And Neapolitan Incident,  And It Left Us Much Divided As To

The Contents Of The Piece Of Paper.

"My Idea Is," Said The Senator,  "That The Young Woman In The Red Jersey

Was The Hired Girl And That Note Was What You Might Call A Clandestine

Communication."

"Since We Are In Naples," Remarked Mr. Dod,  "I Think,  Senator,  Your

Deduction Is Correct. Where We Come From A Slavey With Any Self-Respect

Would Put Her Sentiments On A Gilt-Edged Correspondence Card In a

Scented Envelope With A Stamp On The Outside And Ask You To Kindly Drop

It Into The Pillar Box On Your Way To Business; But This Chimes In With

All You Read About Naples."

"Perfectly Ridiculous!" Said Momma. "Mark My Words,  That Note Was Either

A List Of Vegetables Wanted,  Or An Intimation That If They Weren'T Going

To Be Fresher Than The Last,  That Man Needn'T Stop For Orders In

Future. And In a Country As Destitute Of Elevators As This One Is I

Suppose You Couldn'T Keep A Servant A Week If You Didn'T Let Her Save

The Stairs Somehow. But I Must Say If I Were Going To Have Cabbage And

Onions The Same Day I Wouldn'T Like The Neighbours To Know It."

I Entirely Agreed With Momma,  And Was Reflecting,  While They Talked Of

Something Else,  On The Injustice Of Considering Ours The Sentimental

Sex,  When The Senator Leaned Forward And Advised Me In an Undertone To

Make A Note Of The Market Basket.

"And Take My Theory To Account For The Piece Of Paper," Said He; "Your

Mother'S May Be The Most Likely,  But Mine Is _What The Public Will

Expect_."

And Always The Shadows Of The Narrow Streets Crooked In The End Into A

Little Plaza Full Of Sun And Beggars,  And Lemonade Stands,  And Hawkers

Of Wild Strawberries,  And When The Great Bank Of A Flower-Stall Stood

Just Where The Shadow Ended Sharply And The Sun Began,  It Made Something

To Remember. After That Our Way Lay Through A Suburban Parish _FêTe_,

And We Pursued It Under Strings And Strings Of Little Glass Lanterns,

Red,  And Green,  And Blue,  That Swung Across The Streets; And There Were

Goats And More Children,  And Momma Vainly Endeavoured To Keep Off The

Smells With Her Parasol. Then A Region Of Docks And Masts Rising

Unexpectedly,  And Many Little Fish Shops,  And A Glitter Of Scales On The

Pavement,  And Disconnected Coils Of Rope,  And Lounging Men With

Earrings,  And Unkempt Women With Babies,  And Above And Over All The

Warm Scent,  Standing Still In The Sun,  Of Hemp,  And Tar,  And The Sea.

"The City," Said The Senator,  Casting His Practised Eye On A Piece Of

Dead Wall That Ran Along The Pavement,  "Is Evidently In The Turmoil Of A

General Election,  Though You Mightn'T Notice It. It'S The Third Time

I'Ve Seen Those Posters '_Viva Il PreféTto!_' And '_Viva L'Opposizione!_

That Seems To Be About All They Can Do,  Just As If We Contented Ourselves

With Yelling ''Rah For Bryan!' 'One More For Mckinley!' I Must Say If They

Haven'T Any More Notion Of Business Than That They Don'T Either Of 'Em

Deserve To Get There."

"In France," Observed Mr. Dod,  "They Stick Up Little Handbills Addressed

To Their '_Chers Concitoyens_' As If Voters Were A Lot Of Baa-Lambs And

Willie-Boys. It Makes Enervating Reading."

"Young Man," Said Poppa In a Burst Of Feeling,  "They Say The American

Eagle Might Keep Her Beak Shut With Advantage,  More Than She Does; But I

Tell You," And The Senator'S Hand Came Down Hard On Dicky'S Knee,  "A

Trip Around Europe Is Enough To Turn Her Into A Singing Bird,  Sir,  A

Singing Bird."

I Don'T Get My Imagination Entirely From Momma.

"_Viva Il PreféTto! Viva L'Opposizione!_" Poppa Repeated Pityingly,  As

Another Pair Of Posters Came In Sight. "Well,  It Won'T Ever Do The

Government Of Italy Any Good,  But I Guess I'M With The _Opposizione_."

The Road Grew Emptier And Sandy White,  And Commerce Forsook It But For

Here And There A Little Shop With Fat Yellow Bags,  Which Were The

People'S Cheeses,  Hanging In bladders At The Door. Crumbled Gateways

Began To Appear,  And We Saw Through Them That The Villa Gardens Inside

Ran Down And Dropped Their Rose Leaves Into The Blue Of The

Mediterranean. We Met The Country People Going Their Ways To Town; They

Looked At Us With Friendly Patronage,  Knowing All About Us,  What We Had

Come To See,  And The Foolishness Of It,  And Especially The Ridiculous

Cost Of _Carozza_ That Take People To Pompeii. And At Last,  Just As The

Sun And The Jolting And The Powdery White Dust Combined Had Instigated

Us All To Suggest To The Senator How Much Better It Would Have Been To

Come By Rail,  The Ponies Made A Glad And Jingling Sweep Under The

Acacias Of The HôTel Diomede,  Which Is At The Portals Of Pompeii.

It Seemed A Casual And A Cheerful Place,  Full Of Open Doors And

Proprietary Neapolitans Who Might Have Been Brothers And Sisters-In-Law,

Whose Conversation We Interrupted Coming In. There Had Been Domestic

Potations; A Very Fat Lady,  With A Horn Comb In Her Hair,  Wiped Liquid

Rings Off The Table With Her Apron,  Removing The Glasses,  While A

Collarless Male Person With An Agreeable Smile And A Soft Felt Hat

Placed Wooden Chairs For Us In a Row. Poppa Knows No Italian,  But They

Seemed To Understand From What He Said That We Wanted Things To Drink,

And Brought Us With Surprising Accuracy Precisely What Each Of Us

Preferred,  Lemonade For Momma And Me,  And Beverages Consisting Largely,

Though Not Entirely,  Of Soda Water For The Senator And Mr. Dod. While

We Refreshed Ourselves,  Another,  Elderly,  Grizzled,  And One-Eyed,  Came

And Took Up A Position Just Outside The Door Opposite And Sang A Song Of

Adventurous Love,  Boxing His Own Ears In The Chorus With The Liveliest

Effect. A Further Agreeable Person Waited Upon Us And Informed Us That

He Was The Interpreter,  He Would Everything Explain To Us,  That This Was

A Beggar Man Who Wanted Us To Give Him Some Small Money,  But There Was

No Compulsion If We Did Not Wish To Do So. I Think He Gave Us That

Interpretation For Nothing. The Fat Lady Then Produced A Large Fan Which

She Waved Over Us Assiduously,  And The Collarless Man In The Soft Hat

Stood By To Render Aid In any Further Emergency,  Smiling Upon Us As If

We Were Delicacies Out Of Season. Poppa Bore It As Long As He Could,  And

We All Made An Unsuccessful Effort To Appear As If We Were Quite

Accustomed To As Much Attention And More In The Hotels Of America; But

In A Very Few Minutes We Knew All The Disadvantages Of Being Of Too Much

Importance. Presently The One-Eyed Man Gave Way To A Pair Of Players On

The Flute And Mandolin.

"Look Here," Said Poppa At This,  To The Interpreter,  "You Folks Are

Putting Yourselves Out On Our Account A Great Deal More Than Is

Necessary. We Are Just Ordinary Travelling Public,  And You Don'T Need To

Entertain Us With Side Shows That We Haven'T Ordered Any More Than If We

Belonged To Your Own Town. See?" But The Interpreter Did Not See. He

Beckoned Instead To An Engaging Daughter Of The Fat Lady,  Who Approached

Modestly With A Large Book Of Photographs,  Which She Opened Before The

Senator,  Kneeling Beside His Chair.

"Great Scott!" Exclaimed Poppa,  "I'M Not A Crowned Head. Rise,  Miss

Diomede."

Removing His Cigar,  He Assisted The Young Lady To Her Feet And Led Her

To A Sofa At The Other End Of The Room,  Where,  As They Turned Over The

Photographs Together,  I Heard Him Ask Her If She Objected To Tobacco.

"You May Go," Said Momma To The Interpreter,  "And Explain The Scenes.

Mr. Wick Will Enjoy Them Much More If He Understands Them." The Freedom

From Conventional Restraint Which Characterises American Society Very

Seldom Extends To Married Gentlemen.

We Had To Wait Twenty Minutes For The Other Party,  On Account Of Their

British Objection To Anybody'S Dust. Even Mr. Mafferton Looked Quelled

When They Arrived,  And Isabel Quite Abject,  While Mrs. Portheris Wore

That Air Of Justification Which No Circumstance Could Impair,  Which Was

Particularly Her Own. She Would Not Sit Down. "It Gives These People A

Claim On You," She Said. "I Did Not Come Here To Run Up An Hotel Bill,

But To See Pompeii. Pompeii I Demand To See." The Players On The Flute

And Mandolin Looked At Mrs. Portheris Consideringly And Then Strolled

Away,  And The Guide,  With A Sorrowful Glance At The Landlady,  Put On His

Hat. "I Can Explain You Everything," He Said With An Inflection That

Placed The Responsibility For Remaining In Ignorance Upon Our Own Heads,

But Mrs. Portheris Waved Him Away With Her Fan. "No," She Said. "I Beg

That This Man Shall Not Be Allowed To Inflict Himself Upon Our Party.

I Particularly Desire To Form My Own Impression Of The Historic City,

That City That Did So Much For The Reputation Of Sir Henry Bulwer

Lytton. Besides,  These People Mount Up Ridiculously,  And With Servants

At Home On Half Wages,  And Consols In The State They Are,  One Is Really

Compelled To Economise."

[Illustration: "I'M Not A Crowned Head!"]

It Was Difficult To Protest Against Mrs. Portheris'S Regulations,  And

Impossible To Contravene Them,  So I Have Nothing To Report Of That Guide

But His Card,  Which Bore The Name "Antonio Plicco," And His Memory,

Which Is A Blank.

There Was An Ascent,  And Mrs. Portheris Mounted It Proudly. I Pointed

Out To Poppa Half-Way Up That His Esteemed Relative Hadn'T Turned A

Hair,  But He Was Inclined To Be Incredulous; Said You Couldn'T Tell What

Was Going On In The Department Of The Interior. The Senator Often Uses A

Political Reference To Carry Him Over A Delicate Allusion. Flowering

Shrubs And Bushes Lined The Path We Climbed,  Silent In The Sunshine,

Dustily Decorative,  And At The Top The Turning Of A Key Let Us Into A

Strange Place. Always A Strange Place,  However Often The Guide-Books

Beat Their Iterations Upon It,  A Place That Leaps At Imagination,

Peering Into Other Days Through The Mists That Lie Between,  And Blinds

It With A Rush Of Light--The Place Where They Have Gathered Together

What Was Left Of The Dead Pompeiians And Their World. There They Lay

Before Us For Our Wonderment As They Ran,  And Tripped,  And Struggled,

And Fell In The Night Of That Day When They And The Gods Together Were

Overwhelmed,  And They Died As They Thought In The End Of Time. And

Through An Open Door Vesuvius Sent Up Its Eternal Gentle Woolly Curl

Again The Daylight Sky,  And Vineyards Throve,  And Birds Sang,  And We,

Who Had Survived The Gods,  Came Curious To Look. The Figures Lay In

Glass Cases,  And Dicky Remarked,  With Unusual Seriousness,  That It Was

Like A Dead-House.

"Except," Said Poppa,  "That In This Mortuary There Isn'T